


eyes like braziers

by gealach89 (gealach)



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Masturbation, Obsession, On Hiatus, Vignette, switching POVs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-01 20:09:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14528226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gealach/pseuds/gealach89
Summary: Eve Polastri. She loved how her tongue lingered on the roof of her mouth.





	1. Villanelle

1.

 

People were difficult.

Oh, they were simple, laughably easy to read, to manipulate; but they were difficult too, so tiring. Boring; the only surprising moment in their small lives was when they met her, when that dull spark in their eyes went whoosh. Like a candle; that was thrilling. That didn’t bore her.

But Eve. Oh, Eve. Eve Polastri. She loved how her tongue lingered on the roof of her mouth. Po-las-tri. Like a caress, a fleeting touch – enveloping her with a green scarf. Eve didn’t bore her; Eve was a mirage, a wild card, as untamed as her glorious hair. She fascinated her; she wanted her tongue to linger on the roof of her mouth too – she wanted her name to envelop her.

“Villanelle,” she’d say. Vil-la-nel-le. Her tongue would beat a frantic rhythm, hammer against the alveolar ridge as fast as her heartbeat. Faster and faster and faster, until she was out of breath, her mane plastered to her scalp, the nape of her neck. Rivulets of dark rivers, serpents coiling on her skin. “Villanelle,” she’d say, and then she’d let her wrap her fingers around her throat, hold a knife to her jugular. She wouldn’t plead. She’d tilt her head, just so, chin up, and enflame her with a look of defiance, her gaze smoldering hot, her eyes like braziers. Thrilling. “Villanelle,” she’d say, one last time, and like the charm, it would work.

She’d press against Eve’s pulse, just so. Just so to make her light-headed, to make her feel that joyous thrill too. She’d envelope her and wrap her with silk and fabrics she wouldn’t know the name of, soft lavish things to soothe her anger; she’d adorn her with jewels, crown her with pearls and diamonds and amethysts. She’d look good in purple, like a queen of old. She’d smother her, drowning her with kisses and bruising her with caresses. She’d exhale her name like a prayer, to make her feel her tongue on the roof of her mouth; and Eve would respond, her tongue a hammer against the anvil of her mouth.

Or perhaps she’d bite; she was a tigress after all, a lioness – fierce in her fury, radiant and divine. A righteous, beautiful thing, and she’d look magnificent with her lips tinted with glinting red. A woman like that could never bore her. She wanted her.

And she’d have her.


	2. Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been murdered by episode 5, help me

2.

 

Gifts were poison.

This particular gift, at least, felt like one; its meaning was clear and Eve held no illusions about it. It was meant to rile her up, distress her, nothing more. It was poison, and Oksana would have been pleased to know Eve could even appreciate the irony. She’d have loved to know that such thought had been echoing in Eve’s head ever since she read her file, ever since she saw that note – linguistics student, top of her class. Oksana would have taken a perverse delight in sending her a gift while testing her knowledge, wanting to see if Eve caught on the joke.

Well, she had. Even a middle schooler would have. Gift _meant_ poison, in German. And she wouldn’t have put it past the assassin to coat _with_ poison everything that was inside this suitcase, but they’d have noticed _that_.

This gift was a gauntlet.

Then why was she applying this perfume to her wrists, she wondered. Why was she pressing her wrists to her neck, to that sensitive area, her pulse drumming in her ears, the scent intoxicating. _Villanelle_. She tried it out, just mouthing it, mesmerized by the dance her tongue made. Why was she inhaling this fragrance as if it was the woman’s smell, lingering in her nostrils – she hadn’t even had the time to get that close. She couldn’t know if this was what she felt like, if she used this same perfume…

She’d looked so damn pleased with herself, too. Playing with her, the gun a toy in her hands, just to make Eve dance, pulled by her strings. A step up, a step back. _Worrying_ about having to watch the assassin kill herself in front of her only to see her laugh and oh, what a beautiful, beautiful laughter she had –

Then she’d vanished, leaving Eve reeling. The only memento of her that suitcase that she was now dissecting angrily, these clothes better suited for a woman that most certainly wasn’t her. Why in hell had Oksana sent them if not to rile her up?

In a fit of paroxysmal rage she shed her clothes and slipped into the dress, expecting to look ridiculous; a joke played at her expense. But when she looked into the mirror she saw something different. Something that scared her.

Something that scared her and oh, God, had she ever looked like this? How and when could have the assassin seen this stranger looking back at her, back arched sensuously by the heels?

 _Wear it down_. Dazed, she let her hair flow freely on her shoulders. She looked like a doll being dressed up, but she couldn’t stop her hands from roaming up and down her body, taking in just how _well_ the dress fitted her; realizing with a thrill how long the assassin must have looked at her to get her measurements without the slightest error. Her hands run to her breasts and for a moment she imagined how it would feel like, to have Oksana cup them –

Wait. No. Backtrack there. She stared at the stranger in the mirror; she looked startled, her eyes big, her pupils still wide. Oh no.

Oh, God, she needed a drink. Or several.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea if/when I'll continue this, but with how the show is going, I think it's safe to say I will. Just don't expect coherent or regular updates ^^"  
> Oh, the linguistics student thing is taken from the books, but I haven't read them yet.


	3. Villanelle

3.

 

There were things one had to do, when in the Hole. If you wanted to survive, that is.

Things one had to do to pass the time, to take comfort in. Time lost all meaning, when in the Hole, and even the best could lose track of it. Minutes could go tediously by; isolation was no fun when one didn’t choose it. No, no fun at all.

Villanelle hated the Hole. Everyone did, she supposed; but she’d thought those times past her. She’d thought she was safe. And she wasn’t; she’d never been. How stupid of her to think so, how stupid of her to think Konstantin would free her. How stupid of her to trust him.

Stupid, stupid Villanelle.

There were things one had to do, when in the Hole, and beating oneself up wasn’t one of them. It was counterproductive, a waste of energy.

Focus on an objective. On what she’d do to him if – _when_ – she got out of there. On the sounds he’d make as she killed him, slowly, oh so very slowly. She didn’t think he’d beg; he’d probably think it was beneath him. But oh, when she dragged his daughter out to parade in front of him, a knife to her throat; then he’d beg. She was sure of it. He’d beg her to spare his daughter, the pig.

And she wouldn’t, of course. She’d kill her right there in front of Konstantin, and then she’d leave her there, just an inch out of reach. She’d let Konstantin wither and beg, beg to be allowed to touch his daughter. She’d let him promise her anything, allow him to think there was some hope, and then drag the girl away.

She’d enjoy the cry that would escape Konstantin’s lips then.

 

* * *

 

There were things one had to do, when in the Hole. Something to strive to. Picture it and imagine it there.

Before, it was Anna. Villanelle used to see her sitting in front of her, that smile on her lips. She liked that smile. Anna hadn’t smiled when she’d come home to find her husband dead, but before – before, she’d smiled. She’s smiled at Villanelle like she was the only thing that mattered, the only person worth something in the whole world. Villanelle had been sure that she did – that she meant something to Anna. She always thought she meant something to someone. But the truth was that people were fundamentally selfish. She should know; after all, she’d killed Anna’s husband to have her for herself. She’d thought that Anna wanted it too.

But Anna hadn’t smiled. She’d screamed and taken a few steps backwards, her hands held before her as if Villanelle could hurt her. Stupid Anna. Villanelle could never hurt her.

Eve had done it too. She’d brandished the toilet brush like a weapon, and she’d screamed; but Villanelle only wanted to have dinner with her. Seeing her wearing the clothes she’d chosen for her, smelling the perfume she’d selected just for her, the one bearing her name; she’d wanted to mark her and Eve had let her, had borne those marks. She wanted it too, she wanted Villanelle; she’d asked about her, after all. She wanted to _help_ her.

Villanelle smiled. There were things one had to do when in the Hole, and they’d help her survive before Eve came.


	4. Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who’s excited for the finale? Because I’m pretty much hyperventilating.

4.

 

Jealous? Her? That was preposterous.

Where did the boy get these ideas? She was just focused. She was finding a pattern – clothes, perfume. Oksana fixated on older women, older women with wild hair. Eve herself was her type – “Careful,” Anna had said. She was the jealous one, really, and Eve didn’t think for a second that Oksana hadn’t been reciprocated. Who kept letters from their husband’s murderer? Only a smitten woman. She’d even kept that glorious coat, for crying out loud!

Eve wasn’t jealous. She was just delirious with the knowledge that now she had a path she could follow, a path leading right to Oksana. She could see her again, and confront her, and –

And then what? What did she crave to do, once she finally had her hands on the assassin? She’d sworn she’d make her pay for killing Bill; she’d told the woman that she’d take what she loved the most and crush it to the ground. Common sense dictated what she should do; ask for reinforcements, bring her in, let justice take its course.

Before, she’d thought she could _save_ her. Before knowing that behind the castration there wasn’t anything, no bleeding wound; that Oksana wasn’t an innocent girl caught up in a game far too big for her, but had just rid herself of the competition.

 _Her mother was dead, her father was a drunk._ There was a niggling doubt, at the back of her mind; she was seeing things that weren’t there. She was trying to find excuses for the assassin, seeking to unearth an history of abuse; something that could explain her actions – something, anything to give in to such excuse, to spare her. Oksana didn’t belong in prison. She was extraordinary and driven and oh so smart, and she didn’t belong in prison.

But therein lay the problem – she did. Eve knew it. She was chasing a murderer down a rabbit hole, getting sucked in. She was sniffing around for her scent and roaming alone a city she knew she was in; she wanted to be found. She wanted Oksana to find her, not the opposite. She wanted Oksana to find her, and then –

And then what?

Perhaps she ached for contact, she wanted that thrill she’d felt at her house. That rush of adrenaline, of endorphins. When Oksana had leaned in to inhale her own perfume, pressing Eve’s own knife to Eve’s throat – God, that had left her so wet. Terrified, but so obscenely wet. She wondered what would have happened, hadn’t Niko come in –

Niko. He was right; she should admit it to herself. She was – how had he put it? Getting off on the psychopath? He was right and she’d reacted horribly and she felt really bad about it. She shouldn’t have hit him; he didn’t deserve that. Her marriage was falling apart – she could feel it, shattering between her fingers, like a fragile thing kept far beyond the expiration date. It was falling apart and here she was, chasing the assassin that made her shudder at night, when she should be at home to try and salvage it somehow, to at least attempt to pick up the pieces; and instead she was here, in a city roaming with dangers, playing at the spy game and aching to see Oksana again.

She didn’t know what would happen when she found her, but she knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I’m thinking I’ll follow canon up until the finale (so don’t expect an update before that) and then I’ll happily go off on an AU during the show’s hiatus. Let me know what you think! :D


	5. Villanelle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The finale was everything I could ever want and then took it all away so fast it gave me whiplash, I’m so confused but I trust them! It will be a long wait though D:  
> In the meantime, I’m happy to announce this fic is going to continue after the finale! In order to do that, I’ll have to plan a bit more organically than the mere vignettes I was writing to bridge between one episode and the other, so the wait will be longer – I’m also really busy IRL – but fear not, I’ll update soon! ^-^

5.

 

Eve, oh, Eve was _magnificent_.

She’d taken her and disassembled her with care, with soft words and a soft voice and soft, soft lips; spinning lies with practiced ease. She’d played coy and scared, unsure; a vulnerable soft thing for Villanelle to use, terrified by her own outburst, by her trashing about Villanelle’s apartment, fearing retribution and then handing out a beautiful tale. She’d played her well, and Villanelle had fallen for it, forgetting the fire she knew the woman had, forgetting the fury simmering beneath those eyes.

She’d just been so tired.

So she’d let Eve take her by the hand, she’d let her guard down. She’d let Eve direct the dance, thrilled, anticipation building in her belly. Every step was minute; small gestures not to frighten Eve, not to startle her. Forgetting the iron beneath, the strong will, the thing that had attracted her in the first place.

Eve had looked so small, vulnerable, lost. Unsure of what she was doing, what she wanted. Her breath hitching with Villanelle’s every movement, her eyes following the smallest adjustment in Villanelle’s posture. Lying to Villanelle’s face as they lay face to face. Getting closer, closer, until they could feel each other’s breath ghost on their skin. And for a second – Villanelle was sure, but she’d probably never be sure of anything again – for a second, she’d wanted it. She’d waited for it, for Villanelle’s lips to press on hers.

But then. Oh, then. Then she’d sprung like the tigress she was, her eyes like braziers. And she’d stabbed her! Right in her guts, riding her like Villanelle dreamed of when she slid her fingers inside herself. She’d looked like a mad thing, a glorious, fierce beauty. A goddess. Even as she carved Villanelle’s heart out – as she tore it away from her chest and stomped on it gleefully, as if it was nothing – she’d looked beautiful. The adrenaline had dizzied her; the pain made her babble and uncurl a truth, it rolling off her tongue and giving Eve a new weapon to torture her.

Because oh, Eve had kept with her charade, playing frightened, as if she didn’t know what she was doing, what she’d done. Eve had played beautifully, mock pretending to care, to want to _help_. Villanelle had to respect her for that. Oh, she did.

Eve was magnificent; a master manipulator, the right match for her. But Villanelle wouldn’t do her any favors anymore. She’d keep it all back in, like her entrails; she couldn’t give her any more weapons. That moment of truth was the only advantage she’d allow Eve to have.

Villanelle grinned, her fingers slipping with her own blood.

Oh, they were going to have so much _fun_.


	6. Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eve can't sleep.

6.

 

Oh, God, what had she done?

It kept her up at night. Not for fear of retribution – the obvious thing to worry about, the smartest – but because every time she closed her eyes, she _saw_ it. She could see clearly, in her mind’s eye, every moment of it. How Oksana’s eyes had widened with surprise and pain,

(her chuckle, before. Her certainty that Eve wouldn’t do it.)

her exhale, “I really liked you,” as she registered what was happening, what Eve had done – what she was doing, twisting the knife as she switched their position, as she sat on the assassin,

(“I think about you, too,” she’d said. It seemed so long before.)

and her cry of pain, when Eve had stupidly pulled the knife out.

Every time she closed her eyes, Eve saw it. She’d dissected every second of it; she chased ramifications, kept wide awake by doubts and _what-should-have-been_ s, picturing what would have happened if she hadn’t gone through with it. She hadn’t even thought that far, when she’d grabbed the knife; and later, as she poured her heart out, blabbering just to talk herself out of the situation but feeling terrible truths coming out of her mouth, she hadn’t known that she’d end up stabbing Oksana.

She hadn’t known what she was doing, laying down in the assassin’s lair, and then feeling the added weight of Oksana next to her on the mattress. She hadn’t known what she was doing as she turned to face the woman, as she studied the swollen bruise by her mouth, as Oksana reached out to caress Eve’s hair, oh, so tenderly. She hadn’t known what she was doing as her brain zeroed in on the moment – as she recalled Bill’s corpse, so pale in that casket. The knife had become a sudden weight in her pocket as Oksana stared at her lips. The ache between her legs counterbalanced by a cold decision.

And then – then… Oh, God.

What had she done?

If she’d killed her – if she’d taken Oksana’s life, if in that moment she’d felt it slip between her fingers, she’d have never forgiven herself. As she held the weapon, as she felt Oksana’s blood pump freely from her wound, she’d suddenly known. A throb, a hiccup, a blazing revelation:

she couldn’t.

She couldn’t avenge Bill. She couldn’t take his murderer’s life. Not because she wasn’t that kind of person – God knew there were many things she was discovering about herself, not all of them pleasant. Bill would have laughed, probably. He’d seen it before her, much more clearly than her. He’d seen it.

She was – God, she was fucked. She couldn’t kill Oksana because those things, those things she’d said to buy herself some time – they were all true. She thought about Oksana all the time; hell, she was doing it even now. She thought about her, and she wanted to know everything about her.

She didn’t lay awake at night because she feared the woman would slip into the room and murder her; she stayed still, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, because she wanted her to. Because she’d almost murdered Oksana and she’d realized in that moment that she couldn’t, that she probably couldn’t live in a world where the assassin was gone… where _Eve_ had been the one to wipe her away.

And Oksana would never forgive her. That was what hurt the most; they’d had something, in a way. Some devious, ridiculous thing. A sort of dance, tiptoeing around each other – well, not really. Oksana knew no subtlety.

Oksana had been very straightforward, from the very beginning. Eve had thought it was just her playing a game of cat and mouse, but no; Oksana hadn’t been playing. She was so blunt, almost childish, but in this she was as razor-sharp as with her job, single-mindedly focused. She’d dived for Eve’s lips with the same determination that had led her to chase Konstantin; she’d wanted Eve – truly wanted her, in ways that made Eve’s knees weak. And, God help her, Eve wanted her too. She’d finally seen it; and it had taken her betrayal to see it – the price for her realization, Oksana’s wariness.

Oksana wouldn’t play anymore. She wouldn’t chase her, nor would she be playful. Eve was an enemy now.

It killed her to know that now she was nothing more than a target. That the next time she saw Oksana, nothing she said would convey how sorry she was.

Oh, she’d try. That was why she hadn’t told anyone about what happened in Paris – not that anyone had asked why it had taken her a day more to show up in London again; even Elena hadn’t thought it strange. And that was why she’d tracked down Niko to hand him over the papers he’d signed with resignation (he’d felt it too, he’d felt it shatter, and none of them had cared enough to put it back together). He’d looked at her, after it was done; he’d looked straight at her and seen something – years of marriage don’t go away simply because you sign a piece of paper. He’d seen right through her and he’d asked what was wrong.

(“Is it her?” he’d asked. “The killer. Is this about her?”

_Are you throwing it all away because of her?_ , was what he meant. _Are you insane?_

She wasn’t insane. She hadn’t seen this clearly in years; perhaps she never had.)

_‘See?’_ , she’d say. ‘ _There’s no one. Just you and me. I told no one_.

_‘Just you and me. Like it was meant to be_.’

She’d look at the shadows moving at the feet of her bed, try to discern where Oksana was. The stillness of the air would tell her the woman’s position.

(there was a gun under her pillow, too. Just in case. She wouldn’t possibly have the time to take it, but it was there. It made her feel better.)

_‘Just you and me,_ ’ she’d repeat. _‘Please, can we begin again? Lie down next to me. Aren’t you tired?’_

Oksana would relent, maybe. Join her under the covers with a sigh, reach out to caress her hair again. Eve still felt those fingers between her curls, sometimes.

Or perhaps she’d leave. Perhaps she’d torture her like this – just by coming every night, making her think anything could happen and then leaving without a word.

Or perhaps – perhaps she’d just kill her. Without a word, efficiently, relentlessly. She’d use a knife, probably. She’d materialize from the shadows and hit when Eve least expected it. There would be a sort of poetic justice to that.

Or perhaps – perhaps the worst would happen. Perhaps she’d never come. She’d leave Eve behind, like a broken toy. She wasn’t a target, after all; she wouldn’t be paid for the kill. Perhaps Eve was simply of no interest to her anymore, and that was why she still hadn’t come.

God, she wanted her to come.

Eve clutched at the duvet, and waited for the dawn.


	7. Villanelle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Villanelle plots.

7.

 

She had to get ready, before she saw Eve again.

Obviously she couldn’t simply stroll up; it would have to take careful planning, and she was busy, too.

It seemed that Konstantin’s “death” had left a void of power of some sort. She wasn’t really sure he was dead – she’d been sloppy, too emotional, and she hadn’t taken the time to check – but he’d certainly vanished; and that had left the Twelve to scramble for their footing.

They shouldn’t have told her to kill Konstantin if it left them so vulnerable. It reeked of sloppy planning, and it pissed her off. She didn’t want to have to rely on sloppy employers, employers so stupid that they hadn’t even reacted to her killing the new handler.

She’d have to take matters into her hands; make herself known, point out her dissatisfaction with her current state and theirs.

She’d have to climb up, see the view from there and decide on a course of action – and that meant that Eve would have to wait; this took precedence.

She didn’t want to rush it, anyway; she wanted their next meeting to be perfect.

She had to be at her best, too. The wound had to heal perfectly before she could move as she wanted. The stitches itched, but that was a small price to pay: it was nothing compared to what she’d felt, to what Eve had made her feel – like a sadistic parent showing pretty toys to their child and then dragging them away. Eve had been cruel, oh so cruel, and she’d pay dearly for that. She’d made Villanelle feel vulnerable again, like she’d been so long ago, before she learnt how to protect herself. Before she’d learnt how to play the game.

She had to relearn that. So she wouldn’t concern herself with Eve for the moment; she’d rest, lay low, regain her strength. She’d test it against the Twelve, and when she came out victorious – because oh, she would, obviously – then and only then she’d come to claim her prize…

She’d come to collect.

She couldn’t wait. She pictured it; in her fantasies, she made Eve pay in a thousand ways and then more. She made her feel as helpless and betrayed as she’d felt, staring up at her fierce mane, at her eyes, feeling the foreign object in her stomach. It hadn’t been the foreign object she’d wanted to take from Eve, nor had it been in the place she’d imagined.

Most of her fantasies took on a wild turn. She had Eve at her mercy and then suddenly the woman said something, looked at her from beneath her eyelashes; and it all became so much softer, all the sharp edges dulled by a heady feeling, a daze. The hand yanking Eve’s hair loosened its hold, turning the motion into a caress. Eve leaned into the touch, her eyes half-closed, and they ended up kissing, sometimes more. Then she turned around and stabbed Villanelle again and oh, she was aching so horribly, she was throbbing, and she always ended up touching herself. Still. Despite everything.

That also wasn’t very good for the wound.

That woman. That woman was magnificent and she’d turned Villanelle into a whimpering mess.

Oh, she’d pay for that. Villanelle would make sure of it, she’d pay.

But first, she had to heal.

 

* * *

 

It was a tedious affair, really. Days and days holed up in a safehouse – forced to leave her _home_ – with no other company than a laptop. At least the little apartment was stocked for emergencies, but canned food grows stale very quickly. And yet, she dared not venture outside, not yet.

She had time to kill and things to organize, so she got down to business, unearthing every source she’d worked on over her few years on the job. Thankfully, she’d been very prolific.

Every whisper, every slip of the tongue – she’d written everything down for a rainy day, knowing that she could just as easily turn from predator into prey. She wasn’t there yet, at least she didn’t think so; but it was all the same to her, really. Time for some change. She had to take the reins, truly do it this time. The job had been fun, it had allowed for some really nice things; but that wouldn’t do anymore.

She wanted to be her own boss, go after what she wanted without idiots coming at her from left and right. They only made her waste her time. _Nadia_ had been such a damn waste of time.

She had a goal now; she knew what she wanted. Who she wanted it with.

She’d make Eve pay, and then – then they could restart again.

Wouldn’t that be grand?

Was that how they said it, how Eve would say it? She practiced it in front of the mirror. They could settle in some remote little town, a charming _nid d’amour_.

Wouldn’t that be grand, if they could put that pesky thing behind them and begin anew? Grow old together, wake up and go to bed with the same niggling doubt – _is it today? Is today the day she kills me?_ And the thrill of anticipation as the other approaches with a knife – the disappointment as she uses it just to slit a chicken’s throat.

Who wouldn’t want to live like that? It would be so, so much fun.

She was sure Eve would love it. She was just like her, after all.

They were going to put it all behind them –

But first, Eve had to pay.


	8. Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eve embraces her obsession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the rating changed to Explicit.

8.

 

“I’m kind of worried about you, you know.”

Eve paused, her fingers stilled around the glass filled with something – she had no idea what. What had she ordered? She tried to recall, through the haze, but it didn’t come to her. The only way to know was to try it.

And Elena was still waiting for an answer.

“Worried?” she repeated blankly. Took a sip. Ah, a Bloody Mary. How apt. She held back a snigger.

Elena tilted her head, just so: _That’s what I’m talking about_ , she seemed to be thinking. Her eyes travelled all over Eve, taking in her aspect; she’d put on the first things she’d found on her way out, and the concealer couldn’t do anything for the bags under her eyes.

She wasn’t sleeping well. Come to think of it, she wasn’t sleeping at all.

Elena snapped her fingers right in front of her eyes. Eve blinked, too startled to jump.

She’d have to work on her reflexes, really. What would happen if Oksana suddenly showed up? She had to be ready.

Elena was shaking her head. Her drink sat before her, untouched. “Eve, I really am worried about you. Are you –” She looked around – no one in the pub was paying them any attention – then leant towards her. “Are you still obsessing over her?”

Her hesitant lilt made it clear who _her_ was. Eve considered telling Elena everything, decided against it once more. It would just put her in more danger than she already was, by associating with her.

They were friends, she and Elena. Ride or die. And she didn’t want Elena to die.

So she took another sip, feigned a calmness she didn’t feel. “Why would I?”

Elena raised both eyebrows and shot her an incredulous look. “Huh, because you’ve been obsessing over her ever since this thing started? And don’t think I don’t know about your secret stash filled with information about private, ongoing investigations.” She lowered her voice even further, then reached out and took her hand. “It’s just, I know it’s been a blow, Carolyn shutting everything down. I know we were so close –” she squeezed her hand, her gaze full of understanding. “But Eve, you need to move on. Find a job –”

Eve stopped listening. Elena didn’t understand. And how could she? She hadn’t felt the thrill of the chase, she never had. She hadn’t been there, with Oksana; she’d hadn’t bared herself, seen the other woman in a moment of vulnerability, crashed that trust to dust only to regret it the very next moment. She wasn’t waiting for retaliation, anticipating really, craving it – and she shouldn’t. And that was all right. She couldn’t understand; she didn’t have to. “I’m working on it,” she muttered, and Elena stopped her tirade.

“Yeah? You’ve been looking for a job?” She smiled encouragingly.

How was it, that she could lie so easily to her dearest friend? Eve nodded. “Yep. I’ve been sending resumes, someone will call me back.”

“I’m sure they will!” Elena seemed relieved, her face lightened up. “With your resume, they’d be idiots not to.”

Eve hummed noncommittedly, swirled her drink in the glass. Elena was great, really. Always so bright, but level-headed – not blindly unreasonable like Eve. She knew her limits, and they didn’t bother her. How could they? They kept her alive, after all. Not like Eve.

Eve slammed against them until they shattered. Or until she hurt herself, badly. It had always been like this; this thing had only exacerbated it. She knew herself.

She knew it would have come up to this, eventually. To her staring down what blocked her way, and deciding if she could make it or not.

And she thought she could. She could talk Oksana down; she could fix everything. She would. She had to.

She just wanted to see her again. Explain, apologize. Begin anew.

God, she ached to see her again. This inactivity killed her; not knowing what was happening, where Oksana was, if she was even still alive. If she’d forgotten Eve.

She doubted it, but – perhaps she had her orders. Other things to do, people to kill. Her job.

Oh, God, she was waiting for a killer. Falling for her, like a fool. And yet – she couldn’t bear the thought to lose her. She needed to see her, even if it was the last time – even if she killed her.

So she smiled, and nodded at all the right moments, and somehow managed not to give herself away. It was easy; Elena was worried, yes, but Eve had reassured her, and she was glowing with happiness, with her own news. She and Kenny were doing okay; she’d found a new job. And Eve was happy, truly happy for her. It had all this blessed layer of normalcy, so far from the chaotic mess of her own life, from her desires – from her delusions.

 

* * *

 

When she got home, Eve stood in the living room, taking in its state of disarray. Niko would have taken care of it already, with an exasperated but fond smile.

It was strange, to come home to an empty house.

Oh, she’d done it before, obviously; but she’d always known Niko was on his way. Come to think of it, she’d always known where exactly he was, at any given time.

She didn’t know if she missed that. The predictability of it all. It had bored her, sometimes, deep down. Perhaps it was the very same thing that had led her down this path. Then again, she was hating this thing with Oksana – the wait. Not knowing anything at all. She absolutely loathed it. At least, if she came, it meant she cared. It would mean she still thought about her, like Eve. Perhaps her thoughts weren’t in the same vein, but God, she must still think about her –

_I mean, I masturbate about you a lot_.

The memory brought a shudder to her, a kind of disturbed, yet flattered feeling. She ached.

She doubted Oksana still did that. She doubted she still thought about her, when she touched herself.

Would she? Would she masturbate to someone that had stabbed her?

Why did the thought send shivers down her spine? She felt hot and cold all over, feverish. She dropped the bag to the nearest surface – the coffee table – and sank into the couch, the leather chafing the too-hot skin of her thighs. She saw Oksana leaning towards her, going for a kiss – her lips full, and round, the bruise by her mouth a delicate flower, her eyes intent, sort of soft. The gun on the ground, the knife burning Eve’s hand –

Fuck it. Eve run a hand down her stomach, felt herself twitch. She was really doing this. Okay, she was really doing it.

She’d thought about it, yes. Many, many times. Delirious with the lack of sleep, shadows playing tricks on the wall; yes. She’d never done it, though. Not until now.

She reached the hem of the skirt, hiked it past her hips. Her panties were drenched – with sweat, she hoped, but then she adjusted her position, felt the slick, tell-tale feel against her skin.

What would have happened, if only she’d left the knife in her pocket? If she’d never pulled it out, never shoved it deep into Oksana’s stomach?

She daydreamed about it a lot. Thousands and thousands of what-ifs that led to nothing because she couldn’t change the past, she could only obsess over it. She was fully aware that was what she was doing. So then:

Own up to it, woman. She skirted at the edges, contemplating her options. She was on fire, the faintest touch on her mound sheer agony – every nerve screaming, pulsing. She’d have to do a lot of cleaning anyway, so she cursed and slid the panties down, kicked them on the floor. Cool hair sighed against her, made her whimper. She spread her legs, her hand crawling down. Her fingers, curiously, were cold, and she started at the contact, let out a hiss, her head rolling back to rest on the back of the couch.

She still wore a ponytail.

Her free hand jumped up, yanked at the tie. Her hair released, her scalp throbbing from how hard she’d pulled, she gave a few timid, preliminary brushes, but she was aching, aching –

Did Oksana touch herself like this? Would she have touched Eve like this, if Eve hadn’t stabbed her? Would she be gentle or rough, if she came through that door right now? Would she be thrilled, at finding Eve like this, sprawled on the couch, on display, panting with need, her middle finger running circles against her clit, faster and faster, her name on her lips? Would she bend down to capture Eve’s mouth in a kiss, slide her tongue past her lips as she captured both her wrists with ease, leaving Eve desperate for release, her hips canting forward, begging her do to something? Would she smirk against her mouth as she undid the buttons of Eve’s blouse, freeing her breasts? Would she like them – sagged by age, though Eve wasn’t that old? Would she kiss them, or would she bite them? How hard would she bite down? Enough to draw blood? Would Eve feel the cold caress of a blade as Oksana finally found her way down, as she licked and sucked and pushed her tongue inside Eve, would she press the blade as Eve moaned and begged for more, would she cut –

Eve arched, her finger pressing down with a harsh jab that made her almost scream. She lay there, trying to catch her breath, her hand tingling – her entire body tingling, relaxed in a way she hadn’t felt for weeks on end. She felt exposed now, stripped down to her true self – a wild animal, tearing itself away from the snare. Her thigs were shaking. She was too tired to get up, exhausted by the force of the reality crashing down on her:

She was truly fucked.

She decided she’d wait for Oksana like this, for tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always welcome ^-^ Do tell me your thoughts!


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